


Enough Sense to Come In Out of the Rain

by Penknife



Category: Solo: A Star Wars Story (2018), Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-01 15:52:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17247056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Penknife/pseuds/Penknife
Summary: Han's not used to anyone trying to look after him. Set not long after Solo(/some considerable time before A New Hope.) Shameless fluff.





	Enough Sense to Come In Out of the Rain

Han hates being sick. He blames this backwater planet's foul weather, even though he's aware that chances are that he picked up this wracking cough and throbbing headache on one of their previous stops. It still isn't helping to have the rain coming down in a persistent cold drip that soaks through his collar and down his spine.

"I'm fine," he snaps, in answer to Chewie's skeptical expression. "The faster we get this shipment and get it loaded, the faster we can get off this rock." 

Of course the crates aren't waiting at the spaceport, which would be easy, because the spaceport is a couple of sheet-metal warehouses nestled up against an open field. And there's not a speeder for rent, because they didn't make special arrangements in advance. If he'd known they needed to make them, he wouldn't have come to this forsaken planet. 

What they can get is a handcart, which floats smoothly over dry ground but stalls and churns the air whenever it encounters water or mud, which seems to be mostly what they have here. Every time it balks, it churns up more mud, and he's grateful that at least he has good boots. 

They wrestle the thing to what he hopes is the right back door, and Han knocks, because Chewie's idea of knocking is something people often seem to take as a threat. A nervous citizen of indeterminate gender peers out around the door, heavily swathed in wool wrappings. That seems like a good idea right now. "Captain Solo?"

"The one and only," he says, forcing the words out hoarsely. "Can we get this done?"

They load the crates of guns without much more talking and start wrestling the handcart back toward the Falcon. The first time it stalls, Chewie shoves him out of the way to take the full weight of the cart himself, and Han shoves back, elbowing his way over to take some of the load.

"I told you I'm fine," he insists over Chewie's argument that he can handle it himself.

Fine is probably an overstatement. His chest hurts when he coughs, and while the rain is cold, he's pretty sure from the way he's shivering that he's spiking a fever. He hates being sick, and he's not about to pay it more attention than it deserves.

By the time they get the handcart back to the Falcon, all he wants is to be out of the rain and off this rock. He reaches for one of the crates before Chewie can push him out of the way, starts to shoulder it with a deep breath, realizes breathing was a bad idea a moment too late, explodes into a coughing fit he can't restrain, and drops the crate. It lands on his foot, and he swears and snarls at the crate, and then kicks it for good measure. It skids across the mud.

Chewie picks up the crate as if he is rapidly running out of patience and tells Han not to be stupid and to get out of the rain.

"I am fine," he says between gritted teeth. "What part of that don't you understand, you big fuzzball? And anyway, what's it to you?"

That finally wins a reaction, Chewie's muttered complaints that he doesn't know what's good for him cutting off abruptly into silence. Han picks up a crate, more cautiously, and carries it on board, although he lets Chewie do more than his share of the job without comment. Chewie is still reserving comment himself while they secure the cargo and make ready to lift, or possibly not speaking to him, Han still isn't always sure how to tell the difference.

He's aware that Chewie came from a world where people are supposed to look after each other, and that Chewie is his friend – on his worst days, his only friend -and that it's not fair to pretend he doesn't know that. It's hard to do anything else, though, even after a couple of years in the Navy where reporting sick might get you side-eyed but would also get you a crisp white bed to lounge in and efficient treatment to keep whatever you had from spreading through your unit. There's still a voice in the back of his head that says _if you can't pull your weight, you don't eat_ , and while he tries not to listen to that voice anymore, it's not always wrong. You have to take care of yourself in this world.

"You worry too much," he says finally, once they're clearing the atmosphere. "I know you do."

Chewie snorts to concede the point, but seems to take that as an apology. Han's glad, because he's got nothing else, and he really does feel like crap. 

"Maybe you could take it for a while." He ignores the tone of high sarcasm in Chewie's response that, yes, maybe that would be a good idea, does he think? "A hot shower, dry clothes, maybe put my feet up for a while, I can shake this thing off."

Chewie agrees, without further obvious sarcasm, although Han rolls his eyes when Chewie adds that he'll bring him soup. 

"I don't want soup." He's not even sure if that's true.

In any event it doesn't matter. Apparently he's going to get soup. "Suit yourself," Han says, and heads for the shower. 

The first blast of hot water on his chilled skin burns like fire and makes him shiver even harder, but slowly the heat begins to penetrate, feeling returning to his fingertips. Thawing out always stops hurting eventually, he tells himself; it just takes a while to get used to being warm.


End file.
